The Mark of Childhood
by esmaraldo
Summary: Events, which occur in childhood, will leave permanent impressions upon a young boy's mind.


My mother wasn't brave like Aunt Andromeda, nor was she cruel like my other Aunt, Bellatrix. She was herself, a daddy's girl, cute and charming, right from the moment she was born, her curly blonde hair making a halo around her chubby face.  
  
She was there for me, always...  
  
They never got along, she and father.  
  
"I only married him because of daddy," she had told me once, whilst we were on cushions, relaxing in front of the nursery fire. It was always just the two of us at night, bathing ourselves in the warm rays of light. On thoes nights, she used to tell great stories, about knights in shining armour and princesses. She also read to me from Muggle books, reacounting tales of kings and great war-leaders. Father was always too busy.  
  
In the summer when it was too hot to lie in front of the fire, we would move to the window seat, with the window wide open and the curtains flapping. I'd sit there, next to her and let her stroke my hair.  
  
I was happy then. She was so full of life. Together we made each other laugh. However, as I approached my eighth birthday, things began to change.  
  
----   
  
She had arranged for us to have a picnic, to celebrate my birthday. The night before, I heard them arguing, in their room, down the corridor before I fell asleep. I didn't think anything of it at first; father always made her unhappy, but it must have beenn a rather bad argument because she came into my room later that night, crying silently.  
  
"Oh! Draco," she whispered, as she hugged me closely, "What are we going to do?"  
  
I didn't reply. I didn't know how to reply, so I just lay still. After a while, I must have fallen asleep. She was gone in the morning when I opened my eyes.  
  
The field was full of poppies, red like butterflies fluttering in the wind. They stood out against the mess of tall, golden grass. Mother had begged him to give her a section of the garden. She hated the rest of the grounds, with its manicured lawns and neat rows of shrubbery.  
  
Mother carried the hamper basket whilst I carried her parasol. We made our way to the far side of the field, down the gently slopping hill to where the trees were. It was a hot day, and she didn't want to be burnt by the sun.  
  
I took immense pride in carrying her parasol. I pretended that it was a walking stick, which had first belonged to the great Winston Churchill, until she told me off for getting it dirty. I then imagined that I was soldier in the First World War, marching into no-man's land with the parasol as my rifle.  
  
She put the hamper down underneath the canopy of an oak tree and spread out the picnic mat. I helped her to take the food out of the hamper. There was a small vanilla sandwich cake with "Happy Birthday" piped on it in strawberry icing, cheese sandwiches, cherries and lemonade.  
  
I helped myself to a couple of cherries as she sat down and rested her head against the tree trunk. She seemed less cheerful than usual. I wondered if she was still thinking about the quarrel with father yesterday.  
  
"Draco, do you want to cut the cake?" She passed me the knife.  
  
I cut the cake into four slices, and took one to eat. She watched me. I went over to sit beside her, snuggling close to her; she put her arms around me.  
  
"You're eight now." She sighed. "Your father believes that you're no longer a child and that I should stop treating you like one."  
  
"I'm not a child!" I chirruped, swelling my chest to emphasis the point.  
  
"I know, darling." She smiled and kissed me gently on the forehead.   
  
I finished eating the slice of cake and noticed, to my dismay, that I'd dropped crumbs all the way down my shirt. I quickly went to wipe them away with my jam covered hands, only to leave pink smears where the crumbs had been before. Mother reached for a napkin and helped me clean up the mess.  
  
We spent most of the afternoon like that, resting against the tree trunk. She pointed out to me the names of the plants that grew around the tree. There were three different types of grasses and uncountable types of weed. She had warned me when I had tried to pick the little white flowers of a plant with wide, teeth edged leaves. It was stinging nettle she'd said.  
  
After lunch, we left the shelter of the tree, and went for a stroll, up to the little stream where there were frogs, but never close enough to see the house. It was our little place, just like the window seat and the cushions in front of the fire, where father never went.  
  
"You're to start lessons with a tutor tomorrow," my mother informed me as we walked back to the house.  
  
"Draco," she said, suddenly, laying the basket to rest on the grass next to her. She knelt down until she was eyelevel with me and took hold of my hand. "I want you to promise me something, will you do that for me?"  
  
I nodded, alarmed by her intensity.  
  
"Promise me that you will never turn into him."  
  
I nodded, again, for I knew that it was father whom she had meant.  
  
After that, everything was different. I saw less and less of my mother each day until, eventually, I wouldn't see her at all, except at meal times. Instead, my day was filled with the exercises that my new tutor would set me to complete.  
  
In the morning, it was Writing and Wizard History. In the afternoon, it was Spells and Accounting. Father sometimes taught me elocution in the evenings, but most of my evenings were free; although, I was never permitted to spend time with my mother.  
  
From what little that I saw of her, I noticed that some of her previous vibrancy had faded.  
  
Ten years later, almost a grown man in my final year at Hogwarts, I was to realise and value just how much my mother's upbringing had affected my personality.  
  
The room, clammy and incarcerating, was dark and foreboding. Father stood at one end of the room, and I at the other. We held each other's gaze. I sensed appraisal in his eyes. The other members of the group formed a circle around the two of us, with the Dark Lord at the centre.  
  
My heart thumped painfully in my chest. I would be extremely lucky if I could pull this off.  
  
"Promise me that you will never turn into him." I remembered her words.  
  
My 18th birthday, Father was busy, yet again. Mother and I ate dinner together. We sat at opposite ends of the dinning table, almost a world apart. The grand Birthday Cake, which Father had bought for me stood at the centre of the table.  
  
I had ordered for us to use the houses' best silver. My mother stared at the shiny knives and forks as she sat down.  
  
"Did I do anything wrong?" I asked.  
  
She shook her head. There was pain in her eyes.  
  
"It is what your Father would have wanted."  
  
It had been a cold December morning, when I arrived home for the Christmas holidays. A bone chilling wind blew from the north. My mother did not greet me as she usually did, in the entrance hall, because she was resting. Father informed me that she'd caught a cold when she'd been out walking in the snow one morning.  
  
She sent for me on the last day of the holidays to visit her room. I had seen little of her all week; Father had kept me busy with assignments up in my quarters.  
  
"I want you to read to me," she croaked as I pushed open the door to her bedroom, her voice hoarse and weak.  
  
I stood motionless in the doorway. The room smelt of disinfectant, I shied from the stench. My mother lay in her four-poster bed; her hair was frizzy, brittle and dry. Her sunken cheeks were clearly visible through her grey toned skin; beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.  
  
A book lay beside the bed, on the dressing table. I walked over to pick it up and examined the cover. It was the tattered version of Fairytales by the Grim Brothers.  
  
"I bought that for you on your eighth birthday. Do you remember?" she asked.  
  
I nodded.  
  
She beckoned for me to move closer to the bed so she could touch my face.  
  
"My boy," she said as she stroked my cheek. Her voice quivered, "My poor little boy."  
  
"We had a marvellous time that day." She sighed and closed her eyes. I thought she'd fallen asleep so I tiptoed back to the door. But she was still awake.  
  
"Do you still remember what you promised me?" She whispered.  
  
"I remember".  
  
Her breathing quietened, a ghost of her former self, fluttering between life and death. She seemed calm now, more peaceful than when I had first entered the room, more restful than she had been for a long time. I left her to sleep. A sob caught at the back of my throat as I walked out of the room.  
  
"Is that what you really want?" Dumbledore had asked. "To work with Professor Snape and become a spy?"  
  
His blue eyes had borne into mine, seeking an answer.  
  
"Yes," I had replied.  
  
----   
  
"Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, pledge full loyalty to this cause?" The Dark Lord commanded.  
  
"I do," I uttered, sealing my fate.  
  
The wand bore down onto my naked skin, leaving its imprint upon my flesh, for eternity.  
  
fini


End file.
